Chapter 383

Encrid didn’t know this, but the Red Cloak Order had different emblems engraved on their cloaks depending on rank.

A full knight bore three crossed swords—identical to the royal family’s emblem—along with a Sun Beast, a mythical creature with a round head and a fiery mane.

A Junior Knight had one sword removed from that emblem.

A Squire had only a single sword, and the emblem’s shape changed as they passed various tests and missions within the ranks.

The opponent who thrust his sword forward had an emblem with one sword and a Sun Beast.

It marked a Squire recognized for skill—someone who would become a Junior Knight after only a few more tests.

The sword was fast and straight, like an eagle snatching prey.

Encrid met it without considering the opponent’s special skills or habits.

The moment their swords touched, he twisted.

Tididing.

The Squire’s expression shifted instantly.

The force coming through Encrid’s blade was like a giant’s.

Naturally so—he was swinging with the Heart of Monstrous Strength.

Ttang!

In the flow of clashing steel, the Squire’s sword was bounced upward, and Encrid’s blade traced the line it wanted.

A straight thrust.

At the end of it was the armor covering the Squire’s chest.

Thud. Pierce. Plunge.

The three sounds merged into one.

The sword tip punched through the armor and stabbed the organ called the heart.

Encrid yanked the blade out faster than he’d stabbed and stepped back.

Exactly one step.

Even while blood poured from his chest, the Squire swung his sword horizontally.

Whoosh—the blade cut through the air where Encrid had been just a moment earlier.

His eyes were bloodshot.

“Purururp.”

The Squire vomited blood, still gripping his sword, and collapsed sideways.

He blinked a few times.

Death arrived.

‘Why me?’

Everything felt slow to him.

Thoughts accelerated just before dying.

Reality blurred out.

Why was he losing?

Who was this opponent?

He had crossed swords with decent Junior Knights.

Being defeated like this made no sense.

They had only exchanged blades once.

Then regrets surfaced.

‘Was this not the right side?’

He regretted getting involved.

But if he stayed still, would anything change?

The promise for finishing this job had been an emblem with one more sword added.

He was supposed to rise above the Junior Knights—regardless of real skill.

He had told himself it was like a bottle already tilted. Wasn’t it natural to stick to the side that was likely to win?

‘It wasn’t.’

As death approached, realization arrived with regret.

‘It’s my fault.’

Was he like this when he first dreamed of becoming a knight? When his talent was recognized and he moved forward?

Had he held a sword just to cling to the winning side and claim a reward?

That wasn’t it.

– “I want to uphold chivalry.”

His former teacher, senior, and colleague had answered his childish words.

– “You’re a romantic friend.”

– “Then if you become a knight, let’s make your epithet the Knight of Romance.”

– “What’s that? It’s not even funny.”

– “Puhuhu. Anyway, good luck.”

He had been someone who dreamed of chivalry through poetry and song.

But he’d forgotten that dream and chased something new.

Power, money, honor.

It started going wrong when he decided honor came from admiring gazes.

Dreaming of changing the emblem.

Hoping one more sword would be engraved.

What was he trying to become through that?

Like a flower falling, like a sword breaking, one Squire lay on the ground.

In front of him, a man who wasn’t even panting looked ahead with his sword lowered.

Blood dripped from the blade and fell to the floor.

The hallway floor was already a wreck—broken furniture, half-split doors, bloodstains and corpses, snapped blades.

A man stood among it all.

Black hair and blue eyes.

Because he’d been wandering as a bodyguard at recent parties, some of those present recognized him.

“They said he was a half-wit from the Border Guard,” someone muttered.

Then he gasped and shut his mouth.

Because Encrid’s gaze had turned toward him.

Did he hear that?

No.

He’d muttered softly—there was no way—

Encrid didn’t care about the man’s thoughts or his muttered words.

“Who’s inside?”

It was an ordinary question, but to those still standing, it sounded different.

After killing a Squire in a single exchange, momentum flowed out and became pressure.

If the ones receiving it felt it as pressure, then what was the difference?

There were eight people blocking the door.

The commander swallowed hard.

Would it work if all eight attacked at once?

‘I don’t think it’ll work.’

Just as his face turned pale—sweat from trying to break down the door cooling on his skin—Encrid stepped forward.

A piece of a half-broken wooden shield caught under his foot.

He pushed it aside as he moved.

One of the men at the door flinched and stepped away.

Some of them bared their teeth and tried to hold the line.

Encrid approached and raised his sword.

If they blocked him, he would cut them down.

As his intent rose, [Will] followed naturally.

This time, it was real pressure.

One of the men began sweating profusely and stepped aside as if fleeing.

That was the end of it.

No one blocked the way.

“Are you staying because you want to fight?” Encrid asked.

“No,” the commander answered.

Then why are you here?

Encrid asked with his eyes.

“We are… retreating.”

The commander spat it out.

If they held out, they would die for nothing.

It was fortunate Encrid wasn’t cutting them all down.

Everyone kept their mouths shut and withdrew.

Among them were mercenaries belonging to Baron Mernes and soldiers.

They knew very well they weren’t supposed to leave.

They could be held accountable and executed.

Baron Mernes was thorough in rewards and punishments—especially punishments.

Nevertheless, they retreated silently.

The momentum had been different from the start.

If they attacked, they would die. It was certain.

Fear surged from the heart. No courage remained.

Their will broke.

So they couldn’t stop him.

So they couldn’t hold.

Encrid didn’t look back. He examined the blocked door.

“Who’s inside?”

He tapped the half-broken door with the tip of his sword.

From inside came the sound of something slapping the ground.

“You?”

The voice was familiar.

The whip bodyguard.

‘What was his name again.’

His memory was faint—a side effect of repeating countless todays. No matter how good his memory was, it couldn’t help it.

“Rat?” Encrid asked.

“…Who’s that?”

“Melon?”

“…Are you doing this on purpose?”

Why was this human like this even now?

Matthew thought to himself. Why his lord trusted him, he truly didn’t know.

“It’s Matthew.”

“Ah. Right. Matthew.”

“What about the guys outside?”

“They left.”

“…Where to?”

“Probably where they were going.”

Encrid had no obligation to protect other nobles or anyone else. He had no intention of doing so.

He didn’t even think he had to kill them.

Marcus had asked for help, and Encrid understood it as one thing.

Protect Krang.

So he was doing that.

“Are you inside?”

“Come in.”

Only then did the chest of drawers blocking the door slide aside with a creak.

When Encrid stepped in, the inside was also a mess.

Seven corpses.

Matthew, with bandages over half his face, and another female bodyguard stood nearby.

The woman held a long trident and watched warily.

She wore chainmail that covered only her upper body, and the left shoulder area was torn and cut.

She looked like she’d survived a serious crisis.

And her left shoulder looked difficult to move.

“Where?” Encrid asked.

“Here.”

He turned and saw Krang peeking out from inside a hole—some sort of structure.

“Didn’t you say we had to go even if we died?” Matthew snapped, genuinely angry.

“Where would I go leaving you behind? If this is my end, I have to accept it.”

Krang was calm. Even now, his caliber showed.

Krang saw Encrid and waved.

“You’re late.”

“I tripped over a rock in the middle.”

Encrid shrugged, leaving out that the rock was orange-haired, female, and from the Red Cloak Order.

Krang pulled his hand out of the hole and started to climb up.

It looked like an emergency passage, but Encrid wondered why it was a hole and not stairs.

He heard Krang stepping on something—maybe there was a ladder inside.

It seemed to be drilled diagonally.

“It’s not possible,” Matthew tried to stop him.

Just because Encrid cleared the way didn’t mean the area was safe.

Krang ignored him and came up.

The woman with the trident kept her attention outside.

Encrid was briefly curious who she was, but Matthew couldn’t have been the only bodyguard.

‘He’s not the type to be quietly defeated.’

Krang would have prepared something for this situation.

Encrid didn’t think Krang would have died.

But the fact he asked for help meant it was that dangerous.

It meant he needed him.

“I didn’t know you would ask for help.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Let’s just say I owe you one.”

Krang said it casually.

In truth, Krang had prepared a means—but time pressure nearly made everything collapse.

If Encrid hadn’t come, Krang had been ready to die holding out.

That was why he was smiling even after almost dying.

He didn’t even twitch.

“Why, even though you wanted to become king,” Matthew said resentfully, clearly frustrated.

This was their relationship. Krang listened to him. That was his lord.

“Because I wanted to become king.”

Krang’s words carried a different weight.

Heavier than before.

The surrounding noise seemed to vanish.

The air changed as Krang spoke again.

“If I wanted to become king, what could I become if I only ran away to save my own life? What can I do sitting on the throne if I can’t even protect one person I cherish? Will I just sit on the throne and eat grapes that a maid peels for me? Shut up, Matthew. If I die here, that’s where my luck ends. I’ve done my best, prepared a lot, and I’m here. I have no intention of leaving while losing more.”

Encrid got goosebumps.

They were just words, but words only have power when they don’t end as words.

Krang showed it with action.

It was right to risk his own life.

“I have to do this to keep the promise I made to the Queen.”

Krang smiled at Matthew.

“So stop nagging me.”

The last words were light, like something tossed to a friend.

Only then did Encrid understand why Krang had called him.

Not because it was dangerous.

Not because it was a crisis.

‘To not run away.’

A desperate struggle not to turn away from his dream.

Encrid saw himself in that figure, ridiculously.

Even though he knew he didn’t fit at all.

Even though he was detached.

He saw himself struggling through today.

A struggle to take even one step forward.

Krang was living like that.

Encrid’s heart stirred. He wanted to help.

This must be Krang’s talent.

“Someone’s coming outside,” the trident woman said, starting to drag furniture back toward the door.

“How many?” Matthew asked.

“It’s one person.”

Matthew’s teeth ground audibly.

“Was this the worst case?” Krang asked from behind, still light and cheerful.

It was what Matthew had said earlier.

They could stop a large number of attackers, but not an enemy approaching alone.

“Now it’s time to test our luck,” Krang said.

Encrid spoke from the heart.

“I’ll be your luck.”

Krang turned his head.

Encrid spoke forward instead.

“Don’t stop me, Matthew.”

Matthew was trying to block the front with furniture.

Holding out inside was good against a crowd, but meaningless against elites.

Even with only his own strength, clumsy obstacles like this wouldn’t matter.

When Encrid pushed the door open and stepped out, he saw a man.

Familiar to Encrid, but the first time for the opponent.

It was the Junior Knight who had cut off the flow earlier today.

The man’s left eyebrow twitched upward as he faced Encrid.

“Did you kill Aisia and come?” he asked.

“I put her to sleep.”

Encrid replied. He used fists and feet as lullabies.

The man looked like he wanted to say more, then rushed forward and drew his sword.

Ching—just as the draw rang out, a ray of light fell from above.

It was timing meant to cut off flow from the beginning.

Because he had already seen it once, Encrid reacted.

He tried to block and deflect with the flat of the gladius in his right hand.

Clang!

Encrid’s intention failed.

A loud impact tore through his arm, and his right wrist nearly broke.

It wasn’t just timing—the swing itself was layered with tricks.

The question, the step, the feints, the swordsmanship—everything was built to cut off flow.

And the moment Encrid endured and blocked it all, he felt it.

‘Higher than Aisia.’

Rem level, maybe.

In the gaps, the man drew another sword and stabbed.

At that moment, a whip made by twisting demon beast leather snapped between Encrid and the blade.